


Turn of the World

by aralias



Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms
Genre: April Showers 2015, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-09-15
Updated: 2007-09-15
Packaged: 2018-03-21 02:06:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3673497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aralias/pseuds/aralias
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post LotTL/preS4 the Master is kept aboard the TARDIS AU. Season-cycle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Winter

**Author's Note:**

> Uploading old fic for April Showers 2015. All spelling/grammar errors left as originally posted. 
> 
> It's supposed to be a cycle so you can start anywhere, but this is where I started writing (Sept 15th, 2007), and where I'd start reading too.

The Doctor is re-reading _The Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe_ when it starts to snow, and so, at first, he assumes it’s his overactive imagination at work again. After a while though, he begins to feel distinctly wet with a side of very cold, and having, at last, put the book down, he is forced to admit that Lewis’s writing isn’t to blame. The library is quite definitely filling with snow; icicles are forming on the bookcases. He leans backwards in his chair and squints upwards where the snow in question is materialising two inches beneath the ceiling. “Well,” the Doctor says. “That’s... _interesting_." He frowns. "And definitely not good.”

  
On the desk in front of him, a pile of the stuff is forming on top of his first edition of _Great Expectations_. The pages are already limp with damp. It’s probably ruined. And, for a moment, the Doctor can only stare. This is a nightmare. A small nightmare, given the things he's seen, but a nightmare nonetheless, which means it’s probably the work of someone who knows his nightmares intimately.  
  
“Master?” he calls loudly. There is no answer and the Doctor curses and grabs as many of his favourite books as will fit into his ‘bigger on the inside’ pockets. “ _Master?_ ”  
  
He finds the other Time Lord in the control room watching Hey Arnold on the TARDIS’s principal monitor. The control room is also snowing. The Master has clearly noticed the drop in temperature as he’s muffled up in coat, gloves and a scarf that marks him as a graduate from a university he never went to, but otherwise he seems unperturbed.  
  
The Doctor slams _Great Expectations_ down next to him. “Why would you do this?” he demands.  
  
The Master glances briefly at the embossed title. “I think you’ll find we have Mr Dickens to blame for that monstrosity,” he says, eyes back on the cartoon.  
  
“You know what I mean,” the Doctor says. “It’s snowing inside the TARDIS, or hadn’t you noticed?”  
  
“Clearly I have. You assume it’s my fault.”  
  
“Well, isn’t it?”  
  
The Master switches off the monitor and turns in his chair to face the Doctor. He smiles. “Now, why would I do something like that?”  
  
The Doctor frowns. “You didn’t do this?”  
  
“Oh no,” the Master says. “I did it. Obviously, I can’t use the controls, but if you look under that cover you’ll see a large section of the wiring has been expertly tampered with by a genius with a lot of time on his hands. But, if you remember, though our questions were the same, yours was rhetorical. Mine wasn’t.”  
  
“ _What?”_  
  
The Master taps his lips with gloved fingers, thoughtfully. “Perhaps I’m not explaining myself well enough. This isn’t a defence. I just want you to think about why. Why would I do” he gestures with both hands, "this?" He smiles.  
  
The Doctor doesn't smile back. He says: “I don't know. Out of boredom?” because he knows that’s how most of the Master’s casual acts of evil begin.  
  
“Close,” the Master concedes. “But no. It’s not by accident, nor is it a nauseating attempt to recreate a favourite skiing holiday. It’s much simpler. Come on. _Why?_ Work it out.”  
  
“The TARDIS controls are delicate. My entire library is ruined... This will take weeks, literally, _weeks_ to fix.”  
  
“Yes,” the Master says. “It probably will. _Why_ is it ruined, though?”  
  
“Is this your idea of revenge?” the Doctor asks, one of his hands crunching in his icy hair. “For what: saving your life? _Revenge?_ Is that _it_?”  
  
“Yes,” the Master says, and he smiles broadly. “In this case — best served _cold_.” He laughs. “Seems to have worked quite well. It’s tiny really. You can get more books. You can fix the TARDIS. But I’ve always maintained that it’s the thought that counts. That’s what you get for trying to keep me, Doctor. Fun, isn’t it?”  
  
He presses _Great Expectations_ into the Doctor's hands and wanders off into the TARDIS, whistling a Christmas carol.

 


	2. Spring

The first minute of Vivaldi’s  _Spring_  is following the Doctor around the TARDIS.   
  
“Good, isn’t it?” the Master says, when the Doctor eventually tracks him down, rather improbably, in the kitchen, stirring what looks like blue soup in a large shiny saucepan. “It’s like being on hold,” he continues “but, this time, the nice Indian people will never pick up.”   
  
“Programmed to respond to my DNA?” the Doctor asks. “That’s rather clever.” He gives the soup a curious sniff. “What  _are_  you doing??”  
  
“None of your business." The track abruptly stops and then begins again. The Master grimaces. “Would you mind leaving? That’s really quite annoying.”  
  
“Well, yes, it is,” the Doctor agrees, leaning against the worktop next to the oven. “But the thing is,” the Doctor says. “The thing is that,  _basically_ , it’s a complete waste of time.” He grins, and the Master glowers at him, which just makes the Doctor start to laugh. “An evil scheme I can foil with a pair of  _earplugs_? Hardly end of the universe stuff, is it? You’re losing your touch.”   
  
The music stops and restarts. The Doctor dips a finger into the blue soup and licks it. “Seriously, what is this? Tastes like… salt and vinegar crisps." He sticks his fingers into the soup again. “Actually, it’s not bad. What is it?”  
  
“If I’ve made it correctly,” the Master says, “you should begin to lose consciousness in about ten minutes.”  
  
The Doctor pauses, fingers still in his mouth. “’Ou’re ‘okin'.”  
  
The Master grins slowly. “Unfortunately, I am. I’ve got to freeze it and add lemon and then — voila: a traditional forty-eighth century Ionian pudding. I’m so bored I’m actually learning to cook. Are you pleased?”  
  
“More confused, really, than pleased,” the Doctor says, wiping his fingers on his jacket just to be sure. “You’re _cooking_?”  
  
“Yes,” the Master says. “You’ve crushed my spirit, changed my ways, the tedium has been too much and I’ve actually gone insane. Take your pick. The upshot is I’m making dessert.”   
  
 _Spring_  restarts again. The Master pulls a small remote device from one of his pockets and presses it. The music stops. “What a waste of a week,” he says, beginning to stir the blue mixture again. “As you pointed out though - not one of my better ideas. Fortunate that I’d already decided to give up my wicked ways.”   
  
“I don’t believe you.”  
  
“I’m hurt.”  
  
“You’re lying.”  
  
“Am I?”  
  
‘Oh, of course you are.”  
  
“You’ve done it,” the Master says, his fingers tapping rhythmically against the spoon in his hand. “You’ve won. Aren’t you happy? Is it everything you’d hoped for? I’m tired of rebelling just for something to do, so you win. Your victory will be long and boring and filled with dubious culinary concoctions. The last of the Time Lords rotting away in a TARDIS that ought to have been scrapped five hundred years ago. Isn't this what you wanted?”   
  
“Oh," the Doctor says, "oh, don’t bother trying to manipulate me.”  
  
The Master glances at him sideways. “Why not? It’s clearly working. And all it took was the truth: how marvelous!” He laughs and abandons the saucepan. “Look - neither of us want to spend the rest of eternity like this, sitting around quietly like good little boys: watching and not interfering. That’s why we left Gallifrey in the first place. I know you don’t trust me, but this is ridiculous. Let’s go somewhere! Anywhere. I don’t care. I’m sick of sitting here day after day doing nothing. Frankly, next time I won’t bother to regenerate if this is all there is to look forward to.”  
  
There is a pause and then the Doctor smiles broadly. “OK,” he says. “Let’s do it.”  
  
The Master raises an eyebrow. “You mean it?”  
  
“Well, obviously, I’m not going to let you wander off and destroy any civilizations or anything, but we could go for a walk… investigate… check out the local colour on some unexplored planet... That is, if you want to...”   
  
They grin almost simultaneously and, as if on cue, start running for the control room.   
  
“What about your dessert?” the Doctor asks as they hurl out the door.  
  
“Leave it,” the Master says. “I don’t think it was supposed to be blue anyway.”


	3. Summer

“You can’t be serious,” the Master says, as the Doctor locks the doors to the TARDIS carefully. “What the hell is this? Planet of the  _Teletubbies_?”   
  
Stretching in front of them is a vast expanse of idyllic countryside. The grass is slightly too green and the sky is slightly too blue. The few clouds in the perfect sky are bright white and fluffy like sleeping cartoon sheep. It does look very like a set from the popular children television programme. The Master feels vaguely ill.   
  
“Nah,” the Doctor says, bouncing slightly to test the springiness of the very green grass. “This is just an unpopulated world south of the Klatow nebula. Five thousand years before we left Earth… give or a take a few millennia. Not just unpopulated either;  _completely_  unpopulated. Not a butterfly. Nothing, zilch, zip, na-da-”  
  
The Master holds up a hand. “I get the idea. Nothing for me to kill.”  
  
“That’s right,” the Doctor agrees. “Not so much as a sentient daisy for you to squash. Actually, I find it all a bit creepy, but there you go. Pretty, isn’t it?” He turns to look at the Master over the top of his sunglasses. “Also, you do know there’s no such thing as the planet of the Teletubbies... right?"  
  
The Master makes a face at him. “If there’s a baby in the sun I’m going back to the TARDIS.”   
  
The Doctor grins broadly. “Come on.” He holds out a hand and wriggles his fingers. The silver bracelet around his wrist bounces and glimmers in the too perfect light.   
  
“I’m not holding your hand,” the Master says.   
  
“What?” The Doctor raises his eyebrows. “For safety. I’m not trying to seduce you. Do you want to get zapped? Come on, no one will see.”  
  
The Master folds his arms, his own matching bracelet revealed for a moment under the dark sleeve of his jacket. “Forget it,” he says.  
  
The Doctor shrugs and puts his hands in his pockets. “Suit yourself. Just don’t wander off.”  
  
“Where would I go?”   
  
“Yes, good point,” the Doctor agrees. “OK, let’s go exploring!” He strides off across the grass, the Master following at his own pace.   
  
The planet is eerily silent. The Doctor, of course, keeps up an energetic commentary on intergalactic travel, day time television and something he found in his sock once, but underneath that and the sound of their feet is a void, which ought to be filled by birds and insects, or the hum of machinery and voices depending what sort of planet the TARDIS has crash-landed on this time. For once, the Master is almost grateful for the Doctor’s inane chatter, but they can both sense the strange no-sound that is the absence of movement.   
  
It is with relief, therefore, that the Master finally hears the sound of waves breaking, not too far away. He glances at the Doctor, to check he’s heard it too, which is a mistake, as the Doctor takes this as a sign to direct his conversation at the Master, rather than just to the world in general.   
  
“Fancy a swim?” he offers cheerfully, coming to an abrupt halt as the small hill they have been climbing turns into a small cliff. The water is not too far beneath them and, predictably given the saccharine nature of the planet, a deep and perfect blue.   
  
“No,” the Master says.   
  
“Not even a quick paddle?” the Doctor asks hopefully, pointing towards a small beach, just visible across the water. “Over there. Looks like they’ve got sand. I love sand, though it always gets in your ice cream, doesn’t it, and you keep finding it in your clothes months later. But that’s part of the point of sand, really. Feel like paddling… at all?”  
  
“No.”   
  
“ _Well_ ,” the Doctor says, stretching the word out. “You’re no fun.”   
  
The Master considers pointing out that he’s an evil genius, forced into captivity with his arch-nemesis and that  _fun_ shouldn’t be expected of him. Instead, he gives the Doctor a sharp shove and pushes him into the sea. There is a very satisfying splash as the Doctor hits the water, and the Master has to step back quickly to avoid being drenched as well.   
  
“How’s that for fun?” he calls as the Doctor emerges, spluttering, a moment later. The Master pulls a white handkerchief from his jacket pocket and dabs away the spots of water on his face and smiles.  
  
The Doctor grins as he treads water. “Not bad,” he says. He pushes his damp hair out of his eyes. “Not bad at all. Rather stupid, though, if you don’t mind me saying so. Because, you see, if I do this…” he swims backwards about a foot, “you’re left with very few options.”  
  
“Oh,” the Master purrs, squatting down at the cliff edge, “an implied threat: how sweet. But, you know, you really shouldn’t make threats you won’t carry out. It just makes you look weak. We both know you wouldn’t electrocute me on purpose.”  
  
“Wouldn’t I?” the Doctor says.  
  
“And risk me not regenerating, leaving you all alone in the universe once more? No, I don’t think so.”  
  
“Oh, but you’d survive, no problem” the Doctor points out. “I’ve actually been struck by lightning before: knocked unconscious for a bit, but no lasting damage. Hurts a lot though.” He pushes himself backwards in the water until they are almost nine feet apart and grins again, wickedly. “Are you sure you don’t want to go for a swim?”  
  
The Master scowls and pulls off his jacket. “You know, you really are  _the_  most annoying Time Lord in existence,” he says. He unties his laces quickly, takes off his shoes and socks and arranges them neatly on the side of the cliff. He tugs his shirt out of his trousers and removes his tie, leaving it inside his left shoe. “And I’m not just saying that because you killed everyone else. If the others had survived, I’d still find your company intolerable.”  
  
“I do my best,” the Doctor says, managing to look only slightly pained at the mention of his genocide. “Now, are you swimming or not?”  
  
The Master dives in beside him, bending his body into slightly the wrong shape at the last minute so that the Doctor will be hit by a large wave. His shirt billows around him in the warm water, which is, of course, astonishingly clear. It is equally silent underneath the surface, but, this time, it is not an unnatural silence. Even the drums seem to have faded away. He gives the Doctor’s closest leg a tug, pulling the other Time Lord down below the surface with the weight of his body. The Doctor looks briefly startled, but then smiles and beckons with his head. He mouths  _follow me_  and, without waiting to see whether the Master will follow him or not, pulls himself deeper into the water. The Master rolls his eyes, but swims after him anyway for want of any other option. Both have switched to their respiratory bypass systems and so the stillness of the water is not even broken by the passage of tiny bubbles up to the surface. The Master estimates with this level of exertion they will have to come up for air in about fifteen minutes, but still, for now, it is unexpectedly perfect.   
  
Before long he has overtaken the Doctor, who is slowed down by his heavy clothing and the silly canvas trainers he is still wearing. Just as the Master is about to turn around to gloat about this, the Doctor catches hold of his ankle and pulls the Master backwards, propelling himself forwards at the same time. He laughs silently as the Master mouths _filthy cheat_  and the two of them race towards whatever it is that might be at the bottom of the sea.   
  
The water is starting to get darker now and the Master can feel his lungs beginning to protest. They have maybe five minutes. The Doctor hasn’t stopped yet though, and the Master is unwilling to concede defeat in any game the Doctor is willing to play against him. If they can just reach the sea bed then they can turn back. He kicks his legs harder and glides past the Doctor into the darkness. There is something that looks firm not too far ahead and, for a moment, the Master thinks that they may have reached the bottom at last. But then it moves and he realises that it’s something alive and angry, something that looks like a giant underwater bat, with a webbed collection of poisonous-looking tendrils for wings.  
  
The Master shudders to a halt, but the thing has already noticed him and makes a swipe at him with one of its enormous wings. Whatever species it is, it's not one he knows which is a very bad sign. It means whatever the thing is, it’s very old and very powerful and should definitely not be tangled with if at all possible.   
  
He turns around to find the Doctor fiddling with his sonic-screwdriver. The Master swims past him without a second thought and is almost six feet away when he feels the sonic wave juddering through the water and hears the bat-creature’s shriek in his mind. Telepathic then: that’s interesting.   
  
He looks back to see it shrinking slowly back into the darkness, but something has clearly gone wrong with the Doctor’s plan. One of the creature’s tendrils is wrapped around his ankle and, though he is still fighting it, he seems to be losing. His face is already drained of colour.  
  
Quickly, the Master turns back, grabs the sonic-screwdriver from the Doctor, who is still trying to find a setting that will have some effect, and stabs the pointier end hard into the creature’s flesh. The shock of this ridiculous move is just enough to make the thing relax its hold on the Doctor, and the Master pulls him away. He switches the sonic back to its former setting and gives the bat-creature another blast of the high-frequency. This time it is enough. Still screaming, the thing retreats. The Doctor looks like he might lose consciousness any minute, so the Master grabs his hand and drags him forcibly back to the surface.   
  
They break into the air and the Master is relieved to see the small beach he had earlier refused to paddle on is within reach. With the Master still half-dragging the Doctor, they make it to the shore.  
  
“You utter  _bastard_ ,” he says when the Doctor has finished coughing and gasping into the sand. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but I seem to remember you saying something about how this world was unpopulated.”  
  
The Doctor has been facing away from the Master and now he rolls over so they are nose to nose, his damp jacket picking up a thick layer of sand as he does so. “Well, it is,” he says. “Absolutely, completely unpopulated….  _apart_ from the enormous great thing in the sea that will try and kill us both.” He starts laughing which quickly turns into another coughing fit. When he recovers he says, “Actually… on second thoughts, it was a rather… unforgivable oversight. I’m sorry. It wasn’t on the scanner.”   
  
“ _Nothing_  appears on your scanner,” the Master says, irritably. “It stopped working five-hundred years ago.”  
  
“Yes, but then I fixed it,” the Doctor says. The Master gives him a hard look and the Doctor says “ _what_?” and then begins to laugh helplessly again.   
  
“Oh,  _goody_ ,” the Master says, pushing himself into a sitting position. “You’re actually hysterical.”  
  
“No, I’m not,” the Doctor says, managing to control himself again. “Really. I’m not. It’s just…  _brilliant_ , isn’t it? We just escaped from a giant, poisonous sea- _bat_  that should have killed us, isn’t that brilliant? I think that’s brilliant. Incidentally, what do you reckon? One of the Lastomaar?” The Master considers answering, but the Doctor has only paused to weigh up his own statement. “No, that doesn’t make any sense. They died out years before this, didn’t they? Perhaps a  _massively_  evolved Bloquion, which would account for the size and the anesthetising-wings, but it’s still not the right  _period_ , is it? Particularly…  _particularly_  if they have to evolve to such an extent...” He sits up. “What do you think?”  
  
“I don’t care,” the Master says.   
  
“No, well,” the Doctor says. “I suppose it doesn’t matter really. By the way, I couldn’t help noticing that you saved my life.” He smiles with the utmost sincerity. “And I haven't even said thank you.”  
  
The Master scowls back at him. “Don’t be like that,” he says. “Even discounting the fun-factor, I had two very good reasons for stabbing that thing, neither of which, I might add, were based on any affection for you.”  
  
The Doctor grins and starts brushing sand out of his hair. “Go on then. Share away.”  
  
The Master holds out his braceleted arm. “Firstly, there’s  _these_ ,” he says, giving the bracelet a quick flick with the other hand. “More than ten foot between us and I get zapped. Forgive me, if I didn’t fancy getting electrocuted. Apparently it hurts, but I wouldn’t notice, because I’d be too busy drowning or being eaten by an enormous bat once it’d finished eating you.”  
  
“Fair enough,” the Doctor says. “No electrocution. Can’t argue with that.” He wrinkles his nose thoughtfully. “Except, of course, you had the sonic screwdriver. Brain like yours, it would have taken you three seconds to reconfigure them. Then you could just have left me to die.  _Easy_.”  
  
“Secondly,” the Master says, ignoring him. “Even if I had escaped to the surface, the TARDIS is still on isomorphic controls. Spending the rest of my life here, on a planet that even you think is dull, is strangely unappealing.”  
  
“Again,” the Doctor says, “a point that would be a good point except, of course, you had the sonic screwdriver, which is clearly  _not_  isomorphically controlled. The TARDIS would be yours within an hour. And don’t try and tell me you didn’t think this through. Neither of us are idiots.”  
  
“What is your problem?” the Master says. “I admit I made a mistake. I should have left you to be slowly digested under the sea. However, this should on no account to be taken to mean that I’m in love with you like one of your pretty human disciples, or even that I remotely like you.”  
  
“Nah. Course not,” the Doctor says. “Still… thank you anyway.”   
  
He smiles, hesitates, and then presses a chaste and sandy kiss to the Master’s lips.   
  
Without thinking, the Master opens his mouth and pushes his tongue into the Doctor’s. This is clearly the right thing to do because the Doctor’s tongue darts back against his and the Doctor’s hands reach up to tangle in his hair, pulling them closer together. Everything tastes like sand and salt water, but the feeling of being pressed against another body, even that of his greatest enemy, after nine months of abstinence is intoxicating. With the Doctor’s help, the Master pushes the wet jacket from the other man’s shoulders, and then shoves him roughly back onto the sand. He runs a hand up to the Doctor’s leg, traces the outline of his crotch, and pulls his shirt out from the ridiculously tight trousers, pushing it up across his chest. He kisses the Doctor again fiercely enough to bruise, his hands undoing the Doctor’s fly. The Doctor gasps, “ _Master_ ,” as the Master slides a hand into his trousers and across his cock, which sends a thrill down the Master’s own. This is more like it. He is in control for the first time in almost a year. “ _Doctor_ ,” he hisses, stroking him again. "Who knew you had it you?"  
  
“Wait,” the Doctor mumbles. With obvious effort, he reaches down and stops the Master’s hand with his own.   
  
The Master pouts. “Oh, are you sure about that?” he says, rubbing his thumb against the tip of the Doctor’s already hard cock.   
  
The Doctor’s breath hitches slightly and the fingers on the Master’s wrist tighten, but he doesn’t let go. He says quietly, “It’s probably only fair to tell you…  _before_  we have sex, that I love you.”  
  
The Master withdraws his hand immediately. Furious, he brushes himself down, stands up and strides off across the beach in the direction of the TARDIS. Ten feet away, the bracelets activate sending ten thousand volts of electricity through his system. It does hurt.   
  
Ten feet away, the Doctor sighs, re-buttons his trousers and wanders over to resuscitate him.


	4. Autumn

The first time the Doctor lets the Master choose where to land the TARDIS they end up in a large park back on Earth. The sky is almost white and everything feels crisp, like a painting in relief. The swans are still in residence and a few hardy souls in hats and raincoats are out on the lake, whooping and disturbing them in pedalos. It is all very pleasant, which, naturally, makes the Doctor very suspicious.   
  
That he has not already bundled the Master back into the TARDIS is down to a combination of self-restraint and the rather smug look the Master gave him as they stepped out. Hyde Park, London, England is a dare. After all, the Doctor  _had_  said anywhere; they could go anywhere, as long as the electricity bracelets are on and working. So, against his better judgement, here they are strolling along the side of the Serpentine and the Doctor says nothing about the strangeness of their location beyond: “Bit of an odd choice for you, isn’t it?”  
  
“Not really,” the Master says. “I quite liked the year I spent in London. Not of all of it was spent stalking you.” He slaps a hand to his forehead. “Whoops, I was keeping that quiet, wasn’t I? Well, now you know: I can’t stay away from you. To think, I thought we were enemies all along. How could I have been so stupid?” He begins to laugh.   
  
“Yes, yes, very funny,” the Doctor says, smiling. “So, when are we exactly? Not that I, in any way,  _believe_  you spent your weekends rowing and feeding ducks, by the way.”  
  
The Master shrugs. “Late twentieth, early twenty-first century. How should I know? I did set the coordinates for two years after the millennium, but quite frankly I didn’t really expect to turn up on the right planet. The right century as well seems too much to ask for.”   
  
“Now, that’s just not fair,” the Doctor says. He rubs one of his eyes. “She gets the planet right almost every time.”  
  
“Almost,” the Master says, "being the crucial word in that sentence."  
  
“Well… you have to allow for some margin of excitement. Anyway,” he grins. “We can always ask.”   
  
He holds out a hand and stops a large man in an overcoat carrying several shopping bags. “Excuse me, sorry to bother you, but you couldn’t happen to tell me what year it is?”   
  
The man blinks at him. “You don’t know what year it is?”   
  
“Nope,” the Doctor says. “Can’t say that I do.”  
  
“My friend is very ill,” the Master explains helpfully. “Thinks he’s Queen Victoria most of the time. It's a very sad case and, really, it's best just to humour him. So,  _the year?_ ”  
  
There is a pause. “Well… your majesty”, the man says eventually, gaze flickering hesitantly between the two Time Lords. “As far as I'm aware, it’s the year two thousand and two. Saturday, October the fifteenth. About,” he looks at his watch, “four o’clock in the afternoon. Is that all right?”  
  
“Yes, perfect. Thank you,” the Doctor says, watching the Master who is smiling far too broadly for comfort.  
  
“So," he says when they are out of sight. "Is there anything special about October the fifteenth, 2002? I’m sure I would have remembered a bomb falling on London.”  
  
“No,” the Master says. “Nothing like that. It’s just a normal day. Of course, it does mean that, unlike you, I managed to coax your TARDIS into landing exactly where and when I asked it to, which, I imagine, must be a bit embarrassing.” The Doctor smiles and ignores him. The Master continues: “Speaking of embarrassing, have you  _read_ the things Queen Victoria says about you in the Torchwood files?  _Ouch_." He winces comically. "For a seventy-five year old widow she certainly knew some bad words and she didn’t like you  _at all_. Really, though, who can blame her?”   
  
The Doctor stops suddenly. The Master, who has continued walking some two feet, doubles back and follows his line of sight into the lake, where a couple of teenagers are shrieking and splashing each other from blue and yellow pedal-boats. They both watch as a blonde girl with a brightly coloured scarf leans over from her own boat, and pulls the baseball cap off the head of the dark boy in the boat next to her. The boy yells “ _Oi!_ ” and gives chase at about four miles an hour. The girl turns, laughing, and waves his hat at him. The Doctor stands very still.   
  
“Of  _course_ ,” the Master says quietly in his ear. “Now I remember. October the fifteenth is Mickey Smith’s  _birthday_. Which means that must be…”  
  
“Back to the TARDIS” the Doctor growls. “Now.”   
  
They walk back in silence. The Doctor locks the doors and deactivates the bracelets. He doesn’t shout, or take the Master to see the small girl he trapped in a mirror, or punch him in the face, though he wants to. He says, “How did you know they’d be there?”  
  
“She left some photos in her room,” the Master explains. “I did a bit of guess work as to the date.”  
  
The Doctor nods. “Don’t ever go in there again,” he says and walks away.   
  
The Master shouts, “That’s what you get for keeping me” after him, but the Doctor doesn’t turn around, and he doesn't let the Master choose where to land the TARDIS again.

 


End file.
